


Bedtime Stories with Opa

by Midorisakura (Calacious)



Series: Blood [1]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Midorisakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monroe loves when his Opa tells him bedtime stories, even if they sometimes give him nightmares. It won't be until many years later, when he's met a real Grimm, in the flesh, that he understands what his grandfather was trying to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime Stories with Opa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raafling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raafling/gifts).



> Written as a prequel to, "Blood," for raafling (dreamwith gift exchange) who had requested something from Monroe's childhood/teenage years or Monroe injured in blutbad form with Nick having to save him. I tried to give raafling a little of both with this story as a prequel to the main story. I used a translator for the German terms and phrases. 
> 
> Just getting around to posting this here. 
> 
> Read with a little grace, please. Thanks.

Monroe loves when his Opa tells him bedtime stories. Even if he can’t fall asleep right away afterwards, and he has to have his father look under his bed to make sure that there isn’t a Grimm lurking beneath it, lying in wait to kill him and stick his head upon a lamppost. Or maybe the Grimm would stick it on a pike, or maybe, because it was now modern times, she’d stick his head on a telephone pole for all of his friends and family to see. The thought of the many different things a Grimm could do to his head scares him, and yet, he can’t get enough of his Opa’s stories.

 

His Opa always tells the best, most scary and disgusting stories, just the way that Monroe likes them. Sometimes he even tells them to him in German. Though Monroe doesn’t know all of the foreign words, the way his Opa makes his voice move up and down and the way his hands and face move almost tell the tales themselves.  His Opa is a very expressive and serious man, and there is no doubt in Monroe’s mind that every story that the man tells him is the unvarnished truth.

 

Tonight, Monroe’s wrapped up tightly in his covers, leaving just enough room so that, if he needs to, he can duck his head beneath them and hide himself from his Opa’s fierce scowl, or harsh voice, as he retells the story of the time that Monroe’s great-grandmother was killed by one of the most fearsome Grimms of all, Marie Kessler.

 

He knows this story by heart, but he listens with rapt attention anyway, because his Opa might add something new this time. His eyes never leave his Opa’s craggy face. Monroe knows that Marie Kessler is a Grimm that can stop your heart with a mere look, and that she kills young or old wesen without remorse. Monroe’s mother had explained to him that remorse was when wesen felt bad about doing something wrong and tried not to do the same thing again.

 

Monroe remembered the time when he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach because he’d eaten a whole plateful of cookies when his mother had told him not to. The sickness had nothing to do with eating too many cookies and spoiling his dinner.

 

His mother’s face had been sad and disappointed, and that had hurt Monroe’s heart, and he’d vowed, right then and there, that he would never do something like that again. That, he reasoned, was remorse, and he wondered if Marie Kessler could sneak a whole plateful of cookies right from underneath her mother’s nose and not feel bad about it. Grimms were certainly vile and uncaring creatures if they could do something like that.

 

Monroe decided that he hated Grimms, especially if they didn’t honor their mothers and fathers, and he hoped that he never set eyes on one of them, because if he did, he didn’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. Something that his Aunt Gretel liked to say a lot – that if this and that happened, it wouldn’t be pretty. Monroe didn’t really know what it meant, but it sounded good and scary to him.

 

Marie Kessler, Monroe knew from his Opa’s stories, walked nimbly, like a thief in the night, and moved as swiftly as the shadows. She stalked her unwary prey like a cat crept upon a mouse, silently and sneakily. Before you even knew she was there, she’d be upon you and then you’d be mausetot, dead as a doornail, and your head would be stuck on the pointy end of a stick for all the wesen world to see and fear.

 

Monroe pictures his head on a stick, being paraded through the town, and he ducks beneath the covers, fearful that somehow the Grimm has found him and is waiting just outside of his bedroom window. If she sees him, she’ll steal his head, right off of his shoulders.

 

In his fright, Monroe misses some of what his Opa says, but he catches up easily enough when he regains his bravery and pushes the covers aside, popping his head up just enough so that his ears are free of the cumbersome blankets. The wind howls outside and shakes the house. A tree limb bangs against the window, just as his Opa mimes how the Grimm lopped Urgrossmutter’s head right off of her shoulders, and, startled Monroe jumps.

 

His heart feels like it’s going to beat itself right out of his chest. Monroe bites his bottom lip so hard, that it draws blood and the salty substance fills his mouth and trickles down his throat. His Opa’s story has made him woge, making his teeth long and sharp and his face all furry. Shamed, Monroe hides himself beneath his covers, tucking them tightly over his head until he’s certain that he will come up normal.

 

“Don’t be shamed, Enkel,” his Opa’s voice, grave and stern as always, reaches him, even through the many layers of blankets that cover him. “Woge is nothing to be shamed of, it is only good instincts. Will keep you alive, Enkel.”

 

His Opa’s wrinkled hand rests heavily on his head, and Monroe shivers. He sniffs and sucks on his bleeding lip. The taste of blood doesn’t faze him; it’s a common, everyday taste. Blood is a staple in his home, and it isn’t something that Monroe fears. Grimms, however, are a different story.

 

“Perhaps we finish this story another night, eh Enkel,” his Opa’s voice is a low rumble and Monroe knows that it means his Opa too has given into the woge too.

 

He quickly pulls the blankets off of himself and sits up in bed. He looks carefully at his Opa, wondering how he can control the woge. Monroe reaches a hand out tentatively, and when his Opa smiles, showing his razor-sharp teeth, he gains courage to touch the man’s fur-covered cheek.

 

“How do you do it Opa?” Monroe asks in wonder. He hates when he has no control over the woge, and if he can learn his Opa’s secret, maybe he too can live to be as old as him someday, and escape the fate of other members of the family who have fallen prey to the Grimm.

 

“Do what Enkel?” his Opa asks in a voice that is soft and gentle, not at all like it was earlier – scary and foreboding.

 

“How do you control it?” Monroe’s voice is as small as a mauzhertz’s, and he eyes his fur-covered hands with disdain.

 

“Control what mein Enkel?” His Opa’s furry brows, now white with age, furrow in confusion.

 

“The woge,” Monroe grasps his Opa’s hand and he clings to it, squeezing it tightly as though that will communicate how badly he wants, no needs, to know the answer to his question. “How do you control the woge?”

 

His Opa watches him for a few seconds, and Monroe’s stomach crawls with anticipation. His feet squirm beneath the bedcovers and he holds his breath. His whole life, all six and three-quarters of a year, are hanging on his Opa’s words.

 

His Opa chuckles and shakes his head. Monroe frowns and tugs at his Opa’s hand. His Opa ruffles his hair and then points a finger at him, poking him lightly in the chest.

 

“That is a great geheimnis, a secret,” his Opa says and Monroe draws in a shuddery breath.

 

He’s not going to cry, because big boys, like him, don’t cry, even if they feel like it. But he does feel like his heart is going to break, and it’s hard to keep his face under control when his emotions are all over the place.

 

“One which you will learn with time.” His Opa leans in close to him and flicks his nose playfully.

 

“Some, like your nichtsnutzig Onkel Leopold, never learn, but you,” the older Blutbad presses his forehead against Monroe’s, “kind, you will learn this secret.”

 

He pulls back and Monroe can see something sparkle in his Opa’s dark, brown eyes. He wonders what it is, but doesn’t want to break the spell of silence that has fallen between them, because Monroe recognizes that it’s not an ordinary silence. It is heavy and Monroe has the feeling that his entire future hinges upon his not speaking right now, even though his skin feels all prickly and his toes are curling and his heart sounds like the wings of a hummingbird.

 

His Opa regards him soberly, and then searches his eyes. Monroe squirms under his Opa’s severe regard, and, just as he thinks that maybe he was wrong, his Opa’s face transforms back into its familiar craggy lines and the old man smiles at him, making his wrinkles look even more wrinkly. His eyes are still twinkling, and he pulls Monroe in for a hug.

 

“You, mein Enkel, are going to grow up into a fine young man,” his Opa speaks the words right against his ear, and it’s almost like a prayer. “You’ll have more control over your woge than anyone in our entire family line.” His Opa laughs and hugs him tightly and then releases him.

 

“For now, though, it is time for all young Blutbad to sleep.” He pats Monroe’s pillow and Monroe reluctantly obeys, laying his head down and then shifting around until he finds a comfortable position.

 

“Finish the story about how great-grandmother lost her head?” Monroe knows what the answer will be, even before he asks the question, but he asks it anyway.

 

His Opa shakes his head and presses a kiss to Monroe’s forehead. “It is late, mein Enkel, we will finish the story another time.”

 

“And will I really be a good Blutbad, one who can control his woge?” Monroe asks, pushing himself up on his elbows.

 

His Opa pushes him back against the pillow, and brushes the hair off of Monroe’s forehead. “Ja, you will be the best of us all one day, Monroe, mark my words.”

 

Monroe smiles and closes his eyes. He reaches for his Opa’s hand when the man moves to leave.

 

“Stay?” he asks around a yawn. “Just until I fall asleep?”

 

“Ja,” his Opa says, and Monroe falls asleep with the weight of his Opa’s hand on his forehead.

 

He doesn’t feel the shift of the bed when the man leaves, long after he’s fallen asleep, nor does he hear his Opa’s quietly spoken prayer of protection and strength for him as the old man takes his leave. Monroe sleeps peacefully, and when he wakes, it’s to the sun streaming in through his bedroom window, and all thoughts of the Grimm are forgotten in the light of day.

 

Monroe rushes down the stairs. His heart is light and filled with something that he won’t truly understand until a great deal many years later when he meets a Grimm, in the flesh, and acts as protector to the very Grimm that his Opa had told him nightmare-inducing bedtime stories about as a child.


End file.
